In Your Headlights
by palomino333
Summary: Written for a flash fiction challenge: magic. "You can't stand up to the night until you understand what's hiding in its shadows." -Charles de Lint


Prompt: Magic (can be used as theme or wording)  
Words: 497

An old friend and I were talking about the Werewolf Killer, and I noticed a similarity between Cole Phelps and Elizabeth Short: both had gone into Los Angeles to pursue their dreams, but each had met disastrous ends. Added to that was Garrett Mason's fascination with Phelps, and I figured that Garrett developed a bit of an affection for Cole, as he had for Elizabeth. In this case, it's more of a predatory type of affection, such as a hunter develops for the stag he brings down.

This story was inspired by "Anamoly" from the Metro 2033 OST.

The program that plays in the background is "Lights Out," a radio program that played during the witching hour from 1934 to 1947. The summer of 1947 served as the swan song for the series, as it was the final revival attempt for radio that only lasted a month. Since L.A. Noire seems to use a floating timeline (see: number of months that pass between Traffic and Homicide) I squeezed in the show. The show was adapted to television in 1949, and the (reportedly quite gruesome) recordings from the 1934-1936 era have been lost. Admittedly, the introduction I used for the show was from a few years prior to L.A. Noire, as the closing of the show's story (about a werecat, nonetheless) makes a public service announcement about the American war effort during World War II.

* * *

Music hauntingly drawled out of the car's radio as Cole drove, the breeze whipping through the open window. While the city slept, a killer remained on the loose, though it was one that really existed more in his head, it seemed. Maybe he was just losing his mind.

There were similarities between the victims, though. The women had unhappy relationships, for instance.

Flickers of movement, like the rustle of a coat, or a disembodied laugh, proved the alley's lifelessness a façade.

One figure appeared in full sight.

Her hands slung aimlessly, and her dark curls bounced. Turning, she revealed a disappointed expression, her mouth curled in a scowl. She paused, one hand drawn into herself. Her face was distorted, as if beneath moving water.

She turned out of his field of vision as he passed.

His eyes widened. It couldn't be—glancing at the rearview mirror, he found no further trace of her. He didn't believe in magic, but ghosts, Okinawa had proved, were a different matter.

XXXXXX

Marie, a few strands of her black hair loose, leaned over a cup of steaming coffee. The radio on the kitchen table mumbled to itself.

Cole rapped on the doorframe.

Marie glanced up, blinking. "I'm not—dreaming?"

He shook his head as he entered.

Marie smiled bitterly. "Los Angeles swallows you up." Nudging her coffee cup, she added, "There's more in the pot."

"I'll have some later," Cole assured, taking a chair, "Is something wrong?"

"Can't sleep," she muttered, "Do you think of San Francisco?"

"Not so much anymore."

Reaching forward, she grasped his hand to squeeze. "Maybe Los Angeles will swallow me, too."

Seized by a sense of dread at her words, Cole wished to divulge everything about Elsa and the war. Marie would understand; she was his wife, after all. They'd take the children, and go far away before Los Angeles could have them all. In anguish, he realized that it was pointless; Marie's responses wouldn't be lucid, and even if they were, the result would be disastrous.

"Lights out, everybody," the radio declared solemnly. A bell clanged.

"It's—later—" whispered the radio as Cole rose, "than—you—think."

Marie's eyes widened, and she withdrew her hand. Catching it, he brushed his palm against it.

"'Lights Out' brings you stories of the supernatural and the supernormal, dramatizing the fantasies and mysteries of the unknown. We tell you this frankly—"

Cupping her chin, he stroked his thumb along her jaw. Marie closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.

"—so if you wish to avoid the excitement and tension of these imaginative plays, we urge you calmly—"

Cole sighed heavily, defeated.

"—but sincerely, to turn off your radio—"

Leaning forward, he chastely kissed the side of her head.

"—Now."

XXXXXX

Garrett drew up his collar as he turned off of Sunset Boulevard, with a few notes, such as Detective Phelps's house number, stashed in his pocket.

Phelps sure had a pretty wife.


End file.
